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LIKE MANY MOVING TO THE entertainment capital of the world, I was a girl chasing a dream. My dream didn’t include fame or my name in bright city lights. My dream entailed wearing a badge and catching the bad guy of your nightmares. My name’s Darcy Walker, and I relocated to Los Angeles, California, right out of high school to attend the police academy. Problem was, I couldn’t join until I was twenty and a half years old, so that left a lot of time to hustle. As a newly minted LA native, I was like anyone else—I needed cash to pay rent, cash to eat, and cash to look like I belonged alongside the rich and famous. Since I knew little of LA other than the Walk of Fame, I gave myself a crash course on local street life. The way I did that? I delivered pizzas—it was the first step in my plan for global domination. Here was my job interview at Rollo’s Ugly Pizza: Do you identify as male or female? Are you a convicted sex offender? Do you smoke dope, snort dope, drink dope, or anything with dope? When I answered those questions accordingly, I peed in a cup and five days later was behind the wheel of a car with an “Ugly Pizza” marquis on top. There were delivery drivers with natural ability—they knew the city grid like the backs of their hands—but what was it that turned a mediocre driver into a professional standout? One answer: a stone-cold hustle. Some drivers were willing to work harder, hurt more, and push past the norm of what common sense said was safe. I’d done that for nearly three years, getting rained on, cursed out, and flipped off on a regular basis. All in the name of delivering a pizza on time. I tried to think of it as perseverance and the will to succeed. In reality, it was stupidity branded with idiocy because my hourly wage would barely buy a false eyelash. It was mid-March, and I stood in front of Jerald Packer’s door at a little before eleven p.m., delivering three eighteen-inch BBQ chicken pizzas and an order of hot wings. Since Packer was a new customer to Ugly Pizza, I made a point of pouring on the charm, hoping he’d become a return client with large discretionary funds. I knocked on his door with my elbow, dodging raindrops the size of butterflies. After a six-beat, Packer creaked his door wide, clad in pink women’s underwear and wearing a neon-green wig that hit him at the thigh. Packer was tall and thin with a mesh infinity scarf wound around his neck and an overbite that looked Cro-Magnon. Flipping his hair around like Cher, he flashed me a hairy butt cheek complements of a G-string that was along the scale of a shoe string. In Cincinnati, he would’ve been dragged in for public indecency. In LA, it was par for the course…

#AmazonSpecial 99c. 3-Book Collection of page-turning wit, grit and humor. “Loved Phoebe~ a plain woman making the most of what she’s got and hoping for a little luck.” a.co/dAD8vab “So funny I snorted my coffee out of my nose.” @JUSTConRom#Great